Irregular Orbit
by SopheroniPepperoni
Summary: No matter how far afield he may travel, no matter how lost he may become, Hawke is the center point around which he orbits.


AN: I'm not sure how, exactly, space and cosmology fits into the DA universe, but bear with me for the sake of the story.

 **Irregular Orbit**

* * *

 _Hawke is the like the sun._

He remembers this revelation first dawning not long after he had joined her merry band of misfits. One night, they were sitting in Varric's suite in the infamous Hanged Man, playing Wicked Grace; Fenris recalls neither the occasion nor how, exactly, he had been persuaded to join. He _does_ remember drinking –surprisingly—and that Varric had called him "particularly broody," and that Isabela was spinning one of her outrageous sailing tales, somehow managing to saunter around the table in the telling _and_ keep her cards hidden.

Their ragtag group had nothing in common, from an outsider's point of view: a prince-turned-Chantry-priest rubbing elbows with a lascivious pirate wench; a city guard and a dubious storyteller; an abomination; a blood mage; an escaped Tevinter slave. Holding all of them together, at the center, was an apostate.

For all intents and purposes, they should have hated each other; but Hawke was at the center of them all, shining on them with flames dancing between her fingers and compassion burning bright in her eyes. She was their center, their sun, and they moved around her like satellites, pulled helplessly into orbit by her infectious magnetism.

Fenris remembers being _afraid_ –him, afraid of Hawke instead of afraid _for_ her (but that would come later). Her heat was too much to look at, and he was afraid of standing too close to her surface lest he burn in her righteous firestorm. As far as satellites went, he orbited farthest away, desperate to counteract the pull of her gravity—

But hypocrite of an elf was he, tidally locking his face on her radiance so he was never truly without her light.

* * *

And so time passed. As Hawke's brilliance grew, his distance from her decreased.

He was no longer the farthest thing in her field of gravity; no, now Carver had taken his place at the edge of the universe. Instead, Fenris was now close enough to see Hawke's surface: he could see cracks in her strong personality, chinks in her impenetrable armor. Her light and pull on him was increased in spite of such imperfections. He endeavored to be a help to his friend, for they were friends now.

Hawke, as she called down fire from the sky down onto the heads of their enemies, made him want to share her warmth. What would it be like to burn so hot on the inside that molten heat escaped to the surface, and washed everything it touched in warm light?

After Hadriana, Fenris needed to feel alive; he was _desperate_ to break his master's hold, to be cleansed in trial by fire.

He sought out Hawke, daring to bridge the expanse of space between them, to take her heat and her light and her _heart_ for himself. He had been right: Hawke had burned, had burned hotter than anything he had ever felt, when her skin met his. For a time, Fenris had reveled in the furnace, had caressed the live flame smoldering in his hands, coaxing it into a wildfire.

It was exquisite. Although his body burned, he had never felt so alive.

But more fool him to think that a mere man –a mere _slave_ —could handle such power. Fenris left Hawke's bed, scorched, leaving a trail of ashes in his wake. He had tasted her fire, had taken her fire, and had set her ablaze with hope, only to snuff out the spark before it could truly catch.

After that, he fled to the outer edges of space (but dared not turn his face from her).

And then, when her mother died, Fenris saw that Hawke still burned; but her radiance was only a fraction of what it had been. The bright blaze of her spirit had faded – _astonishingly_ , _heartbreakingly_ —and now she burned with a quiet and subdued dimness.

In order to atone for his actions –for stealing some of her light—Fenris once again journeyed to her estate, to her room, to offer whatever modicum of solace she would take from him.

As Hawke rested her head on his shoulder in grief, Fenris decided he was no longer a merely a satellite –he was a _moon_ , orbiting around her, trying to reflect some of her light and warmth back onto her pale skin. His surface was deeply scarred, craters blasted by magic and misery and the blood on his hands-

But how can a moon, one that has extinguished fire and life alike, one that is barren, hope to warm its sun?

* * *

And then, years later still, when he was finally free from Danarius, finally free to orbit Hawke _completely_ , Fenris sought to take on a new role:

Firetamer.

Hawke, over time, had recovered her strength and her spirit. Flames once again flickered from her fingers and her eyes, sweeping the city around her in a storm of cleansing fury as she fought to right Kirkwall's wrongs. New fissures had formed in her molten, shifting surface, but they only served to let out more light and heat. Her friends were all irrevocably caught in her field, never spinning far from the force that held them all together, the lynchpin around which their world had come to spin.

And when Fenris was ready to surrender himself to her fire, wholly this time, her arms welcomed him home. He knew he could never hope to match her brilliance, but he endeavored to not fear the flames: he wanted to master them, to stand next to her and be unafraid of being consumed.

When Hawke lost her way, when her light dimmed, he wanted to be the light that pointed her back, that guided her weary feet up the path back to herself. He wanted to chase after the sun, after life, with her, no matter what the future held in store for them.

 _I am yours._

* * *

And now, here they are.

It is a quiet night; the moon is shining brightly though Hawke's windows. She, is curled against him, sharing her gentle warmth with him (for when it is just the two of them, like this, she burns gently). Fenris marvels at how her touch no longer sears and leaves blisters in its wake; instead, it licks over him in comforting heat. The smoldering coals that glow steadily between them are something to be cherished and nurtured, something to be fought for.

In this moment, he is content. He is _free. He is hers._

On nights like this, when he is awake and she is not, when she is held close in his arms, Fenris allows himself to thank the Maker (even though he has never been especially religious, Sebastian finally rubbed off on him).

Fenris thanks the Maker for Hawke's patient love, and for her unconquerable strength, and for allowing him to stand as an equal at her side. But most of all, he thanks the Maker that no matter how far away he drifted, how irregular his orbit, he always circled back to pass by the (burning, brilliant, radiant) center of his universe:

 _Her._


End file.
